Date: Mon, 24 Dec 2007 12:43:46 -0800 (PST)
From: Gay Writer
Subject: Fleeting - A Christmas Story
Please note - The following story contains homosexual content. If it is
illegal for you to view/read/be close to such a thing, please stop reading
now. If you find that after reading this, that you are surprised by the
content... well... Sorry about yer luck!
Fleeting
I was just a confused grocery boy when I found the old man. I rushed
back out to my car, grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911.
Once the police arrived we re-entered the house. There were still
clips of snow from my boots on the front rug as we entered. The whole city
had been without electricity for the last two days, but power was restored
as I dressed for work early this morning.
The local sheriff, we all called Enis the Penis, walked into the
room and the echo of his boots against the cold floor made me shiver. He
checked for a pulse, and then lifted an envelope from the frost covered man
and handed it to me.
"It's for you."
I fumbled with the envelope, finally managed to pull the letter
out, and began to read aloud.
"I've watched this small Illinois town blossom and wither with age
like some sinister mirror taunting me through the years. We have much in
common, this town and me, but I prefer to dwell on better days.
The word 'Fag' didn't exist when I was just a young boy. Back
then, the popular and most grave insult was 'Sissy' or 'Sissyboy'. We used
words like daggers back then. It was almost a challenge seeing who could
destroy the other most completely with insults before one would falter.
There were many things you called someone, even your best friend if you
were feeling froggy and wanting to work up their dander for a good
wrestling match, but never 'Sissy'. That insult was saved as the worst
thing you could deliver on another person in the world.
The summer of 1942 was hot and yet another of those seasons of
drought and dread. I spent my hard earned nickel from my paper route on a
bottle of Coca Cola and sat in the dark but damp shade of the local
dime-store relishing every sweet burning sip. The rest of my meager wages
were always given to my mother. Except for the movie house on the corner,
it was the coolest most comfortable place in the entire city, and where my
friends and I congregated each day.
There were rumors that old man Johnson, owner and proprietor of the
local five and dime, had mountains of ice stored away in the cellar in case
the Japs came. It was this, we suspected, that made the air here so cool
and sweet even on the most horrible of days. We didn't have air
conditioning in every building a person might visit back then. When it was
hot, it was just simply that, hot, and you suffered through it.
World War II was in full swing and each morning was a test of
everyone's metal. A select few mothers would deliver the news of your
father and whether or not he had died in battle. The couriers from the
state department were shunned and had long since left that task to them.
It seemed as though the house itself breathed a sigh of relief when the
women passed us by each day. My mother always said my father was too mean
to die. Some of my less fond memories left me inclined to agree.
I hoped then that one day we'd receive word of his unfortunate
demise... but... as fate would have it, my mother was right. The miserable
son of a bitch took another 30 years before he died in his sleep. To be
more precise, it was a failing liver, and the drink that finally made
worms' meat of him. I did love my father, and to this day I still have
only good things to say about the dead. "He's dead... GOOD!"
As the sun sat each summer day, and we returned home from our
adventures, the town seemed to awaken. Supper was prompt and never a
minute past 6pm. I think it was the daily routine that helped us all
survive the worry and fears. Then at 7pm, the town started to thrive. We
kids would go out to play while the mothers would congregate on one porch
or another. They sipped lemonade and spoke in whispers as we chased fire
flies or played tag.
We actually played outside back then. There was none of this
electronic gadgetry you have today. A toy to us was a corn cob with a few
ill gotten bird feathers shoved into the top. We'd toss it into the air
and watch it whirl down to the earth like some strange space ship. Our
minds raced with the possibilities and those golden moments stole us away
from reality. In that twirling freefall of seconds, aliens raged across
the land and we battled the forces of evil.
No matter where the flock of our mothers started, they always ended
at Old Lady Prewett's. Her husband was a colonel in the army, and they
were the only ones able to afford, and who happened to own, a radio. Each
night she would step inside and within seconds you would hear it squeal to
life. Even on the hottest days she would bring a small afghan lap-blanket
back with her and perched herself in her rocking chair beside her front
porch window. The mothers would gather around, sitting on the swing or
railing that wound its way around the front of her house.
Old Lady Prewett was what we kids called her. During the day you
might see her more than ample rump gyrating about as she bent over and
tended to her flowers. Looking at her then, you would have thought of her
as someone's sweet grandmother. Come nightfall, the shadows gave her a
sinister glow and our minds twisted her into the monster we all feared.
During these precious moments of night as they sat by the window, she
watched. Of course we kids continued to play, but it was at a distance.
It was said that she could turn you to stone if you got to close, and even
I had been stopped in my tracks by one of her looks. One stray noise, too
close to their location, and her eyes seemed to search you out and burn a
hole through your being.
While my father was away, a spark erupted in me that I didn't
understand. In health class we learned it was hormones. I was becoming a
man. I discovered my first 'man' hair and showed it to my friends on a
regular basis. I was proud of what I was becoming. That tiny tuft of
darkened hair, which even I had to make sure wasn't some lint cast remnant
of the daily wash, had escalated me into adulthood and the upper echelon
amongst my friends.
I was 9 years old and an early bloomer. It was the summer of 5 cent
Coca Cola, 15 cent gas, Casablanca, and when I met my first true best
friend Bobby. It's easier to love someone who isn't family and who you
don't have to fight nightly for your fair share of the covers.
He was new to town, an outsider, but he and I hit it off instantly.
We spent every waking hour together and then begged our mothers to spend
the nights at each other's house. Our fathers were off to war, and I think
our mothers enjoyed the time they had away from us as much as we did. Bobby
was the brother I wanted and didn't have, and the person I wanted to be,
but wasn't.
Of course, as we grew into our adolescence, we did a little
experimenting. It was nothing quite so risque as you might read about
today, but we diddled a bit. Back then 'diddling' was just a helping hand
for your friend, never anything more.
There were very few older boys in town. Those that were around would
barely acknowledge our existence, so sex was something we learned about
more by accident than anything else.
Bobby and I signed up with the army the same day we graduated high
school. Like our fathers, we were to go off to war, though for us it was
Korea. Six months later on December 25th, 1952, at T-Bone hill, I watched
as a mortar tore Bobby's legs from his body and took away his life as
though it were only a casual thought. I held him in my arms as he stared
up at me panting his last breaths. Flashes of light lit his face like you
might see at a 4th of July fireworks display. I leaned over him, clutching
what was left of his mangled body, and pressed my lips against his. I
loved him, and he loved me. We never needed to speak the words, we knew.
While bombs exploded in the distance, and a collage of screams filled the
air, I watched my true love leave this world.
There was no place for my kind back then, and I never seemed to fit
in. It was as though time had played some joke on me with each passing
year. Even in the 60's with the mindset of free love, I seemed too old to
participate.
Shrapnel, that nearly claimed my right leg, excused me from the
Vietnam 'Conflict' and I found a job as custodian at the local High School.
The years swept past me and I watched as each generation changed the world
in their way. Women, Blacks, and finally homosexuals each strived for
their slice of the American pie. The wars of bloodshed had ended, but not
the constant conflict, or the will to fight.
I had my 75th birthday last month, though no one knows me well enough
to share that information. I've been trapped and tormented by time for so
long I figure there must be some reason to it all, though I still wonder if
I have the mind to grasp it. I remember when minutes felt like days and an
hour was an eternity. Now, a passing hour is only a moment ago, and
yesterday is so far gone I can barely recall it.
You would think that after all these years I would have some great
wealth of wisdom to share, but I don't. Life has been as much a mystery to
me as yours is to you now. It's time to rest, and join my sweet Bobby.
I've heard his voice and his cries in my mind like some growing echo until
it was so loud lately, that it pulls me from my sleep at night. Maybe...
I've finally found my place in time.
I guess I'll leave you with this. Find your time and thrive."
I glanced up from the letter and searched Old man Kelley's gaze. He
seemed to be peering into the empty fire place in front of him. Atop the
mantle was a box of matches and on the floor was an untouched stack of
firewood.
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I know that this isn't your usual story on Nifty, but I thought you
might like it just the same. All comments, be they good or bad are
appreciated. Please send them to gaywriter72@yahoo.com On that note... I
hope that everyone has a wonderful holiday and a great new year. Take
care!